Bracken had an unfortunate way of problem-solving: death. He had spun himself into such a tangled web of troubles that when the time came to face the music, well - it was anticlimactic. His end was met in his seaside bar, on the wrong end of a junkie's 'red sand-fuelled' rage. The act was gruesome and sudden, the drugged-up man rammed his fist clean through Bracken's skull within seconds of meeting each other. In response, the bar owner promptly shotgunned the assailant, and the Anchorage PD chalked it up as another statistic in the ongoing struggle with substance abuse. Bagged the bodies, cleaned up. Case closed.

And as such, V's contact was snuffed out. Being the quick learner she is, conclusions were made. This place was far too gone under corporate grasp. Bracken was a dying breed, fixers were in low demand.

Seeking to touch base with Roy, V found his old barbers shop unexpectedly locked. The back entrance was barricaded, and there were no notes or indications of his whereabouts. Despite combing through town, she failed to locate him and decided to grab lunch alone in the quiet of morning. There was little else to be done.

Back at home base, Kusma was right where she'd left him: sprawled on the couch, eyes glazed over as he stared aimlessly at the ceiling. It was hard to tell if his condition had worsened, but he certainly didn't seem any better.

Approaching him, V voiced her concern. "How're you doing?"

Kusma remained silent, his face void of any emotion. His gaze didn't shift from the ceiling.

A bit louder, she tried again. "Kusma? How are you feeling?"

Only a near imperceptible movement of his lips indicated any form of response. "Barely," he whispered.

"I swear, if your go lights out, Anatoly's gonna have my head on a platter."

Kusma didn't respond, but he turned his head slightly, acknowledging her. Sensing she was overstaying her welcome, V excused herself, claiming she had something to take care of.

The first order of business was a shower, letting the hot water melt her all over and ease her muscles. Feeling fresh and with a clearer mind, V got dressed and headed back out.

Feeling impulsive, she decided to investigate the local club, 'Snowdrift'. The name had been dropped a few times by Roy and Bracken, and she was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

V slinked down the city's arterial, the drag guiding her inevitably towards Snowdrift. Dawn was just clawing its way up, washing the urban sprawl in tender light that seemed almost too delicate for this place. She moved with purpose, blending effortlessly into the city's nervous pulse, the landmark of her destination looming closer.

Roadside stalls and carts were already kicking to life, peddling temptations as their varied scents rebelled against the metallic tang of the morning. The concrete expanse had green ruptures, where benches stood. Adjacent, a park came alive, children's laughter grappling with the synchronized chirp of birds, their engineered precision striking. Those trees, bio-engineered for endurance, boasted leaves that shimmered with a soft bioluminescence. It was a jarring juxtaposition; an engineered serenity right next to proof of decadence. The city planners wanted to prioritize aesthetics over long-term survival, pouring money into making things look right even if the bones underneath were brittle. Mere footsteps away, steel giants dwarfed everything, casting long, dark shadows over chimneys belching out constant plumes of filth. It was schizophrenic. Nothing new.

As V veered closer to Snowdrift, the shiny façade of prosperity started to flake, revealing the aged underbelly of Anchorage. High-end boutiques and gleaming corporate towers gave way to the retina-searing neon, greasy food joints, bars steeped in desperation, and pawnshops lurking with predatory hunger. Chaos was the reigning currency here, where the downtrodden, all gleaming in patchwork chrome, jostled against the nightlife elite in their garish luxury. Time seemed distorted; even with the sun's ascent, the hive of activity was unabated. Snowdrift, housed in what looked like an old post office relic, was peculiar in its absence of a bouncer. Until she entered.

The Snowdrift had an atmosphere tighter and more subdued than V had imagined. Dim lights threw ghostly illuminations on the sparse clientele, each armed to the teeth and wearing their danger like a second skin. Outliers in crisp suits looked misplaced amongst the more rugged denizens of the bar, like wolves trying to pass off as sheep. Another notable absence was the bartender, maybe taking refuge from the brewing tension.

Nestling into a remote booth, V positioned herself strategically, her hard gaze serving as an unspoken deterrent. As she settled, she started mapping the room—gathering data on the clientele, the rhythms of their discussions, and the potent mixtures they swilled.

The suits intrigued her. They didn't bear hallmarks of the primary megacorpos that dominated the district. Their frequent wrist consults and furtive glances spoke of anticipation or dread.

As for the rest of the room, it was mostly solos or small kill-teams, each awash in their own petty quagmires of shit. She steered clear of those as a rule. One bloke, his flesh swapped out for a grotesque mockery, particularly caught her gaze. He was a monstrosity, a slap in the face to biology. Reminded her of Smasher, a bastard chapter she was glad she'd closed. Another presence, a woman crowned by a snarl of spider-like mechanical limbs sprouting from her vertebrae, arrested her attention. Her head was a jumble of sensor gear where a face ought to be. Not a Maelstrom, but a close facsimile.

V had never been averse to implanting some tech under her skin, but to obliterate oneself to that degree? The thought gave her a mental shiver. Not in a million years.

After assimilating the environment, V felt the itch to move. The Snowdrift had divulged all its secrets for the day. But as she pivoted to exit, a hand alighted on her shoulder, anchoring her. V's instincts tightened, but outwardly she remained an iceberg.

"Park it, V," the guy rasped, gesturing at the vinyl seat she'd just ditched. A doppelganger trailed him, already making his way toward the booth. Hemmed in by circumstances, V slid her body back onto the worn cushion.

Both men were swathed in heavy coats that bore the grit and ice of the city, boots encrusted with the muck of sleet-soaked streets. The front guy snagged the seat facing her, while his twin idled, boots sprawled across the tabletop, arms cocked like a headrest. V's eyes flicked between them, a tactical assessment looping in her mind, her hand skimming the cold grip of the hidden gun under her jacket.

The guy before her found his voice, something about it electronically gravelled, an uncanny echo. "Been a while, hasn't it, V?"

Her brows knotted, distrust colouring her visage. "Who the hell are you?"

He exhaled a laugh, something bordering on admiration, reclined back and crossed his arms. "Too long in cryo, eh?"

She was running low on patience. "Start talking, asshole."

He met her with calculated calmness, fingers reaching to peel off his shades. Recognition slammed into her the moment their eyes locked.

"V-Vik?" She stammered, her voice awash in incredulity. "The hell's going on?"

Viktor eased his scarf off his neck, amused by her reaction. "Shocking, I assume?"

Disoriented, she floundered for words. "You — you changed."

His gaze raked over her. "Aren't the only one."

Her cognitive gears were jammed. Could this be some trick, illusion? But no, Viktor sat solidly there, even as she scrubbed her eyes and administered a flesh-pinch reality check. Her expression moulded into stunned disbelief.

Viktor found it all entertaining, tapping his temple with a knowing nod. "Better recalibrate, V."

"Time's wasting," chimed in the stretched-out counterpart, also shedding his scarf and shades to unveil an all-too-recognizable smirk.

Her eyebrows dawning realization, another damnable ghost from her past. "J-Johnny?"

Johnny Silverhand let his iconic grin unfurl. "Hard to shake me off, isn't it?"

The floor vanished beneath her, reality skidding into the surreal. She scrutinized the duo for evidence of deception, anything, but found none. She was bamboozled, reeling between scepticism and the irrefutable. She buried her face in her hands, a mirthless chuckle slipping through. A mental barricade snapped up; she wouldn't let this mess with her. Fists clenched, eyes sealed, she inhaled deep to realign her psyche. When she re-opened her eyes, they were edged with resolve. "Enough of this shit," she rasped.

Johnny rolled his eyes, a brief flicker of exasperation crossing his features before locking eyes with Viktor.

V's gaze turned to cold steel, her finger stabbing the air towards Johnny. "Spit it out. Who the hell are you?"

With a sly grin, Johnny countered, "Christ, V. Need your memory jogged? A landfill rendezvous, you and Takemura – Arasaka's pet – went rogue. A pit stop at Viktor's for some cerebral tinkering, our first tango. A classic for the ages. Made a fine pair of misfits, didn't we? Then there's the Aldecaldo crew, and, oh, your little dip in the pool with Judy. And kudos for that move with the Arasaka witch. Very cinematic. Shame it ended like it did." Every word, every shared memory he unveiled, hammered her psyche. A mosaic of past events only they shared. Her fists balled, knuckles white, eyes darting between Johnny and Vik. It was them, had to be.

Johnny nonchalantly fished out a cigarette, igniting it with a smirk. "That's our highlight reel. And I've got zero reasons to bullshit you."

Vik's voice cut through the tension, soft with concern, "Take a breath, V. It's a clusterfuck, I know."

Laugh or cry? She was caught on the precipice of both, the world around her spinning. Like the day Anatoly had dropped that damned bombshell.

"We'll loop you in, V," Vik reassured, the warmth evident.

She felt torn – an urge to flee juxtaposed with a gravitational pull towards Viktor's familiar presence. And the bubbling need to deck Johnny. Rubbing her forehead, V inhaled deeply, "So, what's next?"

"First, shelter," Viktor interjected.

"If it involves tents or bridges, count me out," Johnny snarked, blowing out a plume of smoke. "Vik snores like a freight train."

"I've got a contact. Kusma. The guy with a spot in the heights," V ventured, a hint of doubt lingering in her voice. Their earnestness was more unsettling than any deceit could have been.

Johnny mulled over the name. "Kusma, huh? Has a Russian ring."

V nodded, "Been earning my keep with him and his lot. Squaring off debts. Be wise to stay in his good books."

Johnny's brow arched, intrigued. "Debts?"

Vik quickly interjected, steering the conversation away, "We'll dive into that later."

Scepticism clouded V's eyes. "Vik, if it's really you. No smoke and mirrors, please."

Vik inclined his head. "We'll talk on the way."

In the dimmed cabin of the vehicle, the gentle thrum of the engine provided the sole ambient noise. Viktor's grip on the steering wheel was steady, with Johnny beside him, keeping a wary eye on the streets that slid by. V, huddled in the back, could feel the gritty texture of the decades-old upholstery against her hand. City luminescence darted past like fleeting phantoms, drawing her into a maelstrom of introspection. Recent happenings were a complex web—her time in stasis, her re-emergence, the abrupt re-entrance of Johnny and Viktor into her life. It all bore down on her, far too fast, a psychological burden far heavier than any tangible weight she'd felt. She was stranded at life's intersection, besieged by her own existence. Her soul ached for clarity, for an end to this maze.

The pregnant silence was abruptly ruptured by Vik. "V," he voiced, a discernible tremor betraying his concern.

She shifted her gaze to catch a fragment of his reflection. "Hmm?"

"Are you holding up?" he asked.

A flicker of annoyance washed over V. "Great. My life's turned into a reality TV shitshow, with hidden cameras capturing every absurd angle."

"You could pivot to tragedy if comedy doesn't suit you," Johnny interjected, flashing a smirk towards V.

Vik sent Johnny a sharp look. "Had we reached you sooner, avoided the mess... well, things went south."

Igniting a cigarette, Johnny responded coolly, "Blame Takemura for ghosting, not me."

Yet one more ghost to uncheck on her list. "Goro? He's involved?"

Vik sighed. "He played a key role, facilitated your relocation from Japan. But there's more, we lost track of you."

Johnny's motions froze momentarily, the lit cigarette pointing accusingly. "Something went down just before Anchorage. Care to elaborate?"

The memory surged forth, Anatoly's face vivid. "Russians. One Anatoly Shults." The biting cold, flooded back. So did her first real comfort. "Woke me up by accident. They screwed up the cargo sequence, or something. Anatoly made a deal. His contact, Kusma, smuggled me in from the Neo-Sov."

Johnny blew out a ring of smoke. "So, anyone of them loose ends?"

V shook her head. "Anatoly's main crew's in Russia. The other ones here are more under-the-radar. Kusma keeps tabs on me."

Johnny chuckled, "Your personal stalker?"

V countered, "Recall when you were in my head, Johnny? No one does obsession like you."

Johnny grinned, "That's devotion, kiddo."

Viktor cut in. "Good to know a century hasn't changed Johnny's tune. But what about Anatoly? How indebted are you?"

Lost in thought for a moment, she finally admitted, "I owe him everything." V smiled. "My life, technically."

"Well, he beat us to it." Admitted Johnny.

"Is he a friend?" Viktor queried.

From her standpoint, the most trustworthy individual she'd met in ages. "Yeah, he's solid."

"Good, because we have bigger fish to fry," Viktor intoned, his voice grave.

"Like?" V prodded.

"Arasaka," Viktor sighed. "They're on our trail."

"I know," V answered. "Kusma warned me."

Johnny's eyes slit to a side glance, the still smouldering cigarette hanging precariously between his chapped lips. "So, we're thinking in sync, then? They in town?"

"Not sure. Kusma's quiet. If they're here, they're ghosts. But that won't be the case forever," V's voice tinged with wariness.

Vik nodded to himself. "Time's running. We prep, we move."

Johnny leaned forward, his attention piqued by something in far off distance.

"Hold up," V interjected. "Vik, the burning question – why the hell are you two here? How'd Saka grab you?"

A tight smile from Vik. "Hell of a tale, V. Rain check?"

V's voice sliced, "I need the damn truth now, Vik. Who else is out there? Goro? Rogue?"

Vik's reply was swift, cutting her off, "Goro's intel. Arasaka's hit squads took care of your contacts." His eyes found Johnny, cold. "Rogue? Died fighting in Afterlife. The joint's ash now."

"Shit," V breathed.

In the rear-view, Vik's reflection was grim. "I never heard again from Misty. Arasaka grabbed me during an... inebriated moment. Some Saka goon was my wake-up call. Still, their intent's a blur. I don't remember anything after they nabbed me."

V, grief-stricken, rasped, "Do you know about the rest?"

Vik's breath huffed out. "No. Best we can gather, Arasaka strike teams were sent to retrieve anybody related to you. Beyond that, we know zit."

"Great," V muttered. "Fucking A."

"What'd you think Saka do Vo? Same old shit, they used you. Even managed to spend another few years in la-la land. Hope you enjoy being code."

"Speak for yourself." Said Vik, his voice low.

"Like it or not, you were zapped by Soulkiller, same as her. Just sayin' better get used to-"

The front windscreen shattered as the unmistakable supersonic crack of the bullet ripped through the air. Johnny whipped his head into place, watching as the second shot blew out their tire, rest came in rapid succession, hitting the bodywork. Vik swerved off the road and slammed on the brakes, sending them into a sideways slide down into a ditch just around the nearest bend. The car tumbled on to the roof, the seat belt snapped, V was flung against the side of the car, her shoulder smashing against the window as the tumble came to a halt. Vik and Johnny were covered by the airbags, which cushioned their impact. V could practically taste the concussion, tasted like iron and saliva. She found herself sprawled onto the cars crumpled roof, her left arm utterly numb. Her spine had taken the brunt of the impact, her neck ached. She could feel the warmth of blood seeping from her forehead. She tried to move, but her body felt like a lead weight.

She could hear a faint curse in the front seat, the sound of Viktor struggling to free himself. "Son of a..."

Johnny was already on the move. He kicked out the car's window, grabbed his shotgun, clearing broken glass with the buttstock. He crawled out, his movements stiff, favouring his side. He looked up, checking the road above them. Nobody approached but he wasn't to keen on sticking his head out. He limped over to Viktor's side, who had finally gotten himself loose, and helped him pry the door open.

Vik's face was cut, his lips swollen and split, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

V struggled to focus her eyes, blinking away the blood running down her forehead. "Vik, you alright?" She rasped.

"Me? Look at you! Jesus, you're bleeding everywhere." He said, concerned.

V felt a stab of pain shoot up her arm as she tried moving it. Her left shoulder ached something nasty. "I can't move my arm," she said weakly, fighting to stay conscious.

Johnny shot the hinges of her door, tearing it off and tossing it aside. He crouched down next to V, inspecting her injuries. Her skin was pale, her face coated in sweat. The left shoulder of her jacket was shredded, a long gash ran down her forearm. Her left hand was scraped and bruised, blood leaking from a small wound on her wrist.

"Vik! Give her some med-gel!" Johnny called out, his voice tinged with worry.

"I know, I know," Vik responded. He hurried over, kneeling next to V, his face clouded with concern. He rummaged through his pocket, pulling out a small bottle of med-gel. She recognized it, same stuff Anatoly had used on her. He ran her up and down, coating half her arm with the substance for good measure, using up the few last drops on her forehead. While at it also popped her arm back into place. V gritted her teeth as he did, but the anaesthetic worked magic, she felt nothing more than a sting. The med-gel's effects were near immediate. Her strength returned, the bleeding slowed to a trickle, the wounds began to close, her vision cleared. All under a minute. Vik grabbed her by the wrists, pulling her up and out of the wreck and on her feet. He patted her on the back, grinning. "Easy peasy, right?"

"Th-thanks," stammered V, wiping the blood from her arm. "Think Saka' finally caught up to us?"

"Could be your pal, Kusma," grunted Vik, breathing hard. "Those shots came from long range."

V scrambled to contact him immediately through the Kriptosfera software, the implication didn't make sense. She couldn't imagine why he'd do it. She didn't want to imagine that. Alas, no response. V swore under her breath. "Nothing on the comms, doesn't mean shit." She grabbed her torn jacket from the ground, flinging it over her shoulders.

As they looked up towards the road, Vik saw a trail of dust kicked up by a car's tires. It was a small hatchback, but it didn't stop. It passed them, barely slowing down. Merely a passer-by, but he wasn't keen on waiting for any more company. "Gotta make a call people, now," Vik said urgently. "Where do we go?"

"My place," answered V, quickly, she had her doubts about the situation, her gut told a different story.

"No." Said Vik firmly, grabbing his bag from the wreckage. "Too risky, even if it isn't him. We'll be exposed."

Johnny looked back the road they came. It was on the coast, flanked by a swamp. Too exposed to even consider backtracking. Theoretically they could ambush a car, hijack it and leg it across. But it could yield that same result he was hiding behind. Against his better judgment, which he admittedly had little to begin with, he looked to Vik. "Got something better in mind, doc?"

"Anything's better then rushing blindly into their scope," Vik responded.

V felt uneasy, her gaze flickered between the two. "You wanted me to make a call, now you're questioning it?"

Vik shook his head, his expression grim. "There's no second chances."

"Really? I had plenty of those," V replied, sarcasm evident in her tone.

Johnny made a brash move, scaling the side of the ditch, making a beeline for the trees. Seeing as his head was still attached, Vik and V followed suit.

It's only fitting I come back on Halloween. Haunting this platform with more bad writing. One thing's for sure, the new ending did ruin my opinion about a few of the characters. But I think its for the best.